Geist
by Perfectly Censored
Summary: She makes me forget how to breathe. She makes me forget how to live. She makes me forget that I'm the bad guy. Because to her, I'm just as super as those asshats in capes.


Disclaimer: I do not own glee or any of the characters in glee. This is purely a fanbased work of fiction and I ain't makin' no money off of this stuff.

Author's Note: Okay. So, here it is. This was _supposed_ to be a one shot for Cloud's Holiday Smut project, but that definitely didn't happen, and now this thing is definitely a huge epic thing that sort of grew. I'm really excited about it and have great plans for it (I already have the second chapter half way written), but just so everyone is aware, Strange Fruit still takes precedence. I will be updating both at the same time, but I only have five more chapters of Strange Fruit to write, so it shouldn't be that hard to do.

Anyway, thanks to everyone backing and cultivating this project with me, **Harvey** and naturally beautifully gifted beta, **Lyrium**, who basically smashed the upload button as soon as I sent this little thing to her. And **SwingingCloud** for inspiring me to write this thing in the first place.

Without further ado, I gift this to you.

* * *

_**Geist**_

**Women in Leather**

I wish someone would have told me about Brittany S. Pierce. Granted, they all would have gotten it wrong, surely, but I wish it none the less. Perhaps then I wouldn't have been so utterly blindsided by _her_. Just her, because there's nothing else that needs to be said.

I'm standing on the edge of a sidewalk, the exhaust from cars drifting high into the sky and all I can wonder is how does it know to go up? She'd asked me that once before, curious if the vapors were cousins of the clouds, because everything should have a place to belong. The cynical side of me scoffs because not everything works out in the end. Hardly everything works out. I know, I've been there, I've seen the mother fucking end and it's no Merry Christmas wrapped in tinsel and green paper.

It's at the end of a cold barreled gun, stuffed to the brim with confetti and one of those comic BANG! flags that Harley Quinn used to be so fond of. Whatever happened to that bitch, anyway? Sometimes I wonder where all of them went. Was there a memo? Was I not invited?

Rude, to say the least. Oh well, who needs them anyway, they were all mostly out for themselves. Who am I kidding? All of those asshats had a rocket ship built for one, fuck the little guy. You'd think they'd give me a little credit at least. But then again, if they had, I probably would never have known her.

A car horn blares, and I'm back in the city streets. It's horrible here, but at least I don't have to wear the cape. I shrug my shoulders, the biting chill of December pressing straight through to my bones. I wrinkle my nose because it stinks. It always has. And probably always will. I once tried to paint an accurate picture of the stench to my abuela, but I found that the only words capable of describing the offensive smog were "sun rotting fetus." Being a devout believer in his Lord savior Tom Cruise—or Jesus, whatever—she didn't much appreciate the joke. She refuses to visit. But whatever, I don't have to worry about it. I ain't Mr. Clean or some shit. I leave that job to the nuts in masks.

The box in my jacket pocket digs deep into my side and I wonder if she'll like it. I mean, I have no doubts and all—I've taken the world hostage three thousand times, stolen the statue of fucking liberty and caused political uproar on multiple occasions. I've broken into the Smithsonian just because I could, replaced the Queen's jewels with rock candy and—on more than one occasion—shut down the entire world stock exchange because my employer felt the need to throw his or her weight.

That's the thing about super villains, at least the bimbos in the papers. They always want to be heard or looked at, which makes abso-fucking-lutely no sense. What I've tried to tell them thousands of times, is that if they would just keep their heads low and stopped buying flashy suits and screaming goddamn catch phrases, they might avoid the attention of the supers.

But they don't.

And I guess that's why they conscript me. As if I'm some master-mind maid, like what the hell. I once heard one of those little trollops (no, literally, her name was The Trollop, what the hell kind of stupid name is that?) refer to me as Senorita Bucketo, which—by the way—isn't actually Spanish. The next day, she was snagged, so, I guess bitch got what she deserved.

She was a shitty human being, anyway.

"Are you gettin' in or no?" the driver is peering at me through his cracked passenger window, a scraggly beard beginning to grow rough upon his face and I wonder if perhaps he had gotten in a fight with a lawn mower. Or a chainsaw.

I raise my eyebrow, because it's my signature look, and open the back of the cab. It smells like shit, but I know better than to insult a cabbie and his car. It's basically an extension of his worthless, ho hum life and Jesus forbid you say anything bad about the upholstery. They take their leathers serious.

"Just take me to third and Pine," I mutter. Slamming the door closed behind me, I stare out of the dirt stained window, following the curves and trails of the snaking grime. It's typical. Even the windows are foul. Wrinkling my nose, I draw my coat closer to me, the corners of the box pressing deeper.

It's a scarf, okay?

A silk, rainbow scarf.

I know, I know.

Oh man, Santana, how are you so fucking gay, right?

Well you know what? Bite me. Brittany will fucking love it. I'm not sure why, but she insists upon treating every goddamn color of the rainbow equally. Apparently, it has something do with discrimination. _If I say green is the best color, Santana, then yellow will get depressed—her feelings get hurt easily and there's nothing sadder than a weeping sunshine yellow. And if I say purple is the best, then red will feel left out and probably act out on his orange-ish brethren—which in turn could turn violent and angry, don't you see? _If only I could have her sense of wonder.

Disinterestedly, I watch the people through my dirty window, the cabbie going far faster than is probably safe, but in this city, safety isn't really the biggest concern; when there's none left to go around, most people abandon all illusions and do what they want. It's probably a bad business model, but you live with what you got, I suppose.

A stick up; a bank robbery; a mugging; a drug deal—I like to make a game of how many I can count of each while I travel the measly twenty six blocks to her apartment. Well, _our_ apartment, I guess I should call it, I mostly live there too. It's cute, I guess, with a spit stained stoop and a flower pot sitting out with a "happy little plant" that she insisted upon keeping. I'm not sure if she understands gardening, or whatever, but I'm pretty sure flowers need heat in order to survive.

_It'll grow back_, she keeps telling me, but honestly, all I see is a dead, brown stick in a pot full of dirt. I'm not sure how it's going to come back from that one. Even Ivy would be hard pressed to coax him back to life, I think. Except I would _never_ invite Ivy over for dinner. She's a poor dinner guest and even worse on dates, let me tell you.

Have you ever had a woman with poison lips try to kiss you?

No?

Then stay the fuck out of my way, because I couldn't move for twenty goddamn minutes while it worked its way out of my system. By that time, the bitch had ditched and left me with the bill—woman had ordered five drinks at The Sea Castle down on the waterfront—you know the place—and she didn't even have the soft lady-balls to tell me sorry.

But whatever, it's fine.

Because the cabbie is pulling up alongside the curb, a scowl set upon his face, his grease covered fingers reaching through the window for my source of payment. I shove the twenty at him, mindful of his pock mark ridden flesh and peel myself from the confines of his seat. He doesn't say anything, just grunts and shrugs, shoving the bill into the front of his pants and I suddenly have the intense need to ask if that bulge in his pants is his little limp dick or if it's a hodgepodge of ones, fives, twenties and nickels (it's pretty fuckin' lumpy). I feel a little bad for whoever had to touch that moist crotch-cash at the end of the night but I try not to dwell on it too much.

Digging around obscenely, he produces a crumpled wad of bills and begins counting out my change. Wrinkling my nose, I shake my head and open the door, moving to get out. "Keep it."

I don't hear his response over the blasting wind that whips across my face, freezing whatever sweat had accrued within that steaming hotbox the cabbie deemed a car. A shiver passes through me, my lips twisting into a disgruntled scowl, at least one big enough to make sure people knew I meant business.

But there's not actually anyone on the sidewalk, and even if there were, they would all probably just swill about me avoiding contact. That's the way of Providence (ironic, right?). Where a wayward glance is grounds for a good old-fashioned lynching.

Shrugging my shoulders against the cold, I cut across the uneven pavement and make my way up to the stoop. I always feel so weird just walking in because I'm still pretty certain that I should be knocking to make sure she's decent or, in the very least, that Rachel fucking Berry is nowhere to be seen, because there ain't nothing more irritating than that woman. And I've had plenty of irritating things happen to me. I would know.

I just want to make sure the coast is clear, alright?

Drawing my hand back, I rap my fingers lightly against the worn wood of our door (yes, it's _our_ door), little splinters poking into the soft flesh of my hand. I wait a couple of seconds, the scrambling on the other side of the door and the muffled "Coming!" bringing a smile to my face. I just can't help it, okay?

The door swings open, revealing the small hallway and bright blue eyes. And call me stupid or whatever, but I feel my insides turn to jelly. I'm warm and cold at the same time, my fingers trembling, eyes darting all about her face and I wonder how I'm so lucky.

"Santana?" She's wearing her deliciously short yellow running shorts and a plain white tank top. It rides along her hip and I can't help but want to lightly trace the naked expanse of her flesh. Goosebumps prickle along the back of my neck, the skin beneath my fingernails itching.

"San-tan-a," she sings. But her lips are moving, forming my name perfectly, striking an anvil—or some shit—in my ears because everything is ringing and for the first time in a couple seconds I let out a breath and push her inside latching the door behind me.

"Who is it, Brittany?" And just like that, the sack of shit named Rachel fucking Berry breaks every little charge, every little moment and my lips twist down into a gnarled scowl.

"Berry's here?" It's more of a statement than anything else because obviously it's Rachel. I would know that "voice" anywhere—it's more like a shrill shriek of a farting siren than a voice, to be honest. It's no real secret that I detest the woman, I don't even try to hide that shit. She's the _ultimate_ goody two shoes. Like if Santa were to have a love child with a Jewish Jesus, it would be Rachel fucking Berry's left toe.

Which toe—who the fuck cares.

Brittany shoots me an apologetic look, light platinum locks falling around her face in a perfect halo. "We're baking—"

"San_tan_a!" Rachel cuts her off before she can even finish her thought. "Good, we could use the milk. You may proceed to assist us in the kitchen. We're baking a traditional pumpkin spice bread that requires a great deal of concentration—you seem aptly able to concentrate like a capable human being—you may sift the flour." She shoves a silver cylinder into my hands, little patches of flour dusting along the leather of my jacket.

"I thought I told you to keep the pets on a leash, Brittany," I snort, rolling my eyes. What do I look like? A walking goddamn grocery store?

Brittany leans in close, the smell of vanilla drifting off of her in subtle waves and for another whole minute, the world is spinning rapidly. I have to remind myself to calm my tits. Multiple times—but it's so damn hard when her long legs, creamy and soft, brush against my own and her lips are buzzing at my ear.

She makes me forget how to breathe.

She makes me forget how to live.

She makes me forget that I'm the bad guy.

Because to her, I'm just as super as those asshats in capes.

"I'm sorry, I know you had something you wanted to do, but she sort of just showed up. What was I supposed to do?"

"Uh, I don't know, slam the door on that ridiculous thing she calls a nose?" A couple times for good measure, I add silently. The edges of the box dig deeper into my ribs. I know I shouldn't be so petty, but I don't like to share. I really didn't want to have to do this with that harpy here.

I mean, it isn't a fucking proposal, but like, so what? This is my moment and I don't want some man-brows crawling along and inspecting every single little thing I do. _Are you sure it's PETA approved, Santana? Do you know how many spiders died to make that silk? About fifty thousand. Are they organic dyes? I very well can't allow Brittany to walk around promoting public pollution around her neck! _ Pulling my hand out of my pocket, I shrug my shoulders and begin removing my jacket cascades of flour misting to the floor. It'll just have to wait.

Sighing, I hang my jacket on _our _coat rack, the empty arms reaching towards the earth in an attempt to be grounded. I brush the remaining white off the black and shake my head, allowing beautiful fingers to wrap around my wrist and tug.

She leads and I always follow, because she's that sort of person. Magnetic. Energetic. With a smile that powers the whole fucking sun and eyes as vast as a universe being laid to waste by a single point of blue light.

The vanilla drifts off of her skin and I wonder if it's from the baking or if it's just her, because sometimes I can't tell where one begins and the other ends. Admittingly, Brittany has an easier time telling time on an egg-timer than she does baking a boxed cake, but that's beside the point. She tries. She tries so hard and I can't even look at her face without seeing all of that goodness—that self same light that I've always avoided like a rat with scabies—and I know that she's happy.

"I wanted to try baking raspberry cookies, but Rachel said that there wasn't any such thing as a raspberry cookie and that, instead, we should bake this pumpkin spice bread, but I'm not really sure why it's called spice because there isn't any hot sauce in the batter and it smells sort of like a cake—do you think the hot sauce comes later?" She glances at me over her shoulder and I swear I can see the world spinning there for the briefest of moments. It drifts around her iris like mist and I know what she's meant for.

And it's in moments like these, with the cute, confused crease between her eyebrows and her sweet rambling lips, I realize I love her, but I'm not _good_ enough for her. If she knew, if Brittany knew, then everything would be over. But it doesn't matter, because she doesn't know and she never has to know—it's not something I do out in the open. I'm in the proverbial dastardly closet. Again.

No, I don't have some secret, cliché lair or some shit like the goddamn Joker—that makes things far too easy. No, I have a little apartment in upper Providence with a cute little view over the harbor and a little desk littered with scraps of love letters I've been meaning to give to her. There are no maps on my walls or hidden compartments with an entire arsenal of guns (killing is _never_ a necessary evil, and if those idiots try to convince you otherwise, then you'd best ignore the shit-fountains pouring from their mouths). I used to have a cactus, but now he lives here. Oh and there's a computer and a super comfortable leather chair and probably some cereal (actually, I should probably go see if I have any milk…) but there's nothing noteworthy.

It's just me. I don't run like that Motta bitch down the street—ain't no one in Providence who don't know who she is or what she does. But no one messes with the Motta Mob (though I much prefer to call them the Sugar Stix, mostly because it infuriates her and anything I can do to assist in Sugar Motta's annoyance is time well spent).

It's shit like flaunting that gets you caught. And bling. Flaunting and bling, which are the two things that pump through Sugar Motta's barely beating sugarcane heart.

Although, being able to tell Brittany "Yeah, I've stolen entire banks off the face of the planet and hijacked the moon a couple of times" would certainly feel good, it wouldn't have the allow-me-to-rip-off-my-clothing-and-take-me-I'm-yours effect that I would want.

"Different kind of spice, BrittBritt," I reply simply.

"But how?" She's pulling me into the kitchen and I follow, watching the way the muscles in her legs coil with each step she takes. She's built like a goddamn track star, okay? I've seen those legs do things nobody ain't ever seen before. A shiver rocks my body remembering the way my lips had caressed her ankle.

"Cinnamon is still a spice, Brittany." Rachel's voice pulls me out of my imaginings. "It actually originated in India in the early 16th century when Baltonya Cinnamonia—that's where the name comes from—"

"Do you believe all of the shit that comes dumping out of your mouth, or do you just make it up as you go?" I cut her off with a snarl, sending her a glare that could probably curdle milk. Hopefully it'll be the milk she wanted earlier.

Fluttering her eyes rapidly (I swear she's having some sort of neuroleptic seizure), Rachel balls her fists, her mouth forming a small, perfectly round oval. "Honestly, Brittany, I don't understand how such a-a-a hooligan," as if that was meant to be offensive "came to live with you."

"Aw, Santana isn't Hungarian, Rachel, and you shouldn't be so judgmental. You're from Gotham and we still love you." I shoot Brittany a quick, horrified glance before turning my sneer back to Rachel.

"Not all of us can be first chair in our desired cesspool of social outreach," I snort. If there's one thing you should know about Rachel fucking Berry, it's that she's a singer. I'd never tell her this, but she's a damn good one, too. She claims to have moved from Gotham to Providence because no one could appreciate her talent there, but we both know that's a lie (she just doesn't know that I know). She just hated the giant gay rat with wings and his tumbling twink sidekick.

"I refuse to rise to your baseless comments—now come over here and sift the flour." She's pointing to the spot directly next to her. Pleadingly, I glance at Brittany, who all but smiles and nods her head.

"It'll be fun, San. Think of this as an adventure."

Because every day with Brittany S. Pierce is an adventure and I'll be her goddamned bard any day (Yeah, I've played dungeons and dragons, what of it?). I still wish someone would have told me about her, maybe then I wouldn't feel so guilty.

* * *

My phone vibrates in my pocket. The cakes—breads, whatever—are in the oven. The kitchen resembles what I would assume murdering the Pillsbury doughboy would look like and Rachel is sprawled on the floor cupping a large glass of red wine in her hands, her eyes red and bleary. Brittany rests her head in her lap, a Cheshire grin languidly splashing across her face.

"Jesus, Berry, get your shit together." But she's looking up at me with those big doe eyes and I'm not exactly sure how it came to this. I roll my eyes and dig my phone out, ignoring the way she's sitting below our oven, her back resting against the drawers. Bitterly, I hope a wayward drawer knob is digging into her ribs.

"If I plant tiny orange seeds outside, will I get a tiny orange plant?" Brittany looks at me with her darkening eyes and I can feel the heat beginning to spread along my collar. Apparently, you can't properly bake without drinking, which (in my opinion) seems like a horrible combination, but they had insisted and I suppose that's how it came to this.

With Brittany's head in Rachel's lap and my phone vibrating madly. And if I were PMSing I probably would throw the damn thing down the garbage disposal and taken immense satisfaction in hearing it crunch against the rotary blades into a bazillion little pieces. Then again, I consider doing it anyway. But I don't. Instead—stupidly—I pull it out of my pocket, the screen bright and blaring with the one name I never want to see flashing across my phone.

Either something's gone really bad.

Or something's gone _really _bad.

[Quinn: Santana, you shitbag, answer your fucking door.]

I glance down the hallway towards the solitary splintered wood and glare at the bronze doorknob. No. She can't know. Could she?

[Me: Bitch, just cuz you think you know everything don't mean I have to do shit for you. Go away, I ain't even home.]

Quickly, I shove my phone into the deep recesses of my undersized girly pockets (like who the fuck decided we didn't need pockets, anyway? We got important shit to keep in there like tampons—and not those bullshit pieces of cardboard some people call tampons—but the ones made for .45 cal bullet holes. Jesus fucking Christ) and I hope that perhaps I can bury the oncoming storm.

A thunderous knock nearly fractures our front door. Perking up, Brittany makes to stand. "Who is it?" she sings.

"If you want to have a door still in this jam, I suggest you send that piece of shit Lopez out here before I bust it all down," comes the equally singsong reply, slightly muffled by the thickness of the wood.

"I'm sorry S, I tried to stop her, but you know how she—OUCH! Fuck Q, that fucking goddamn hurt!" The masculine tones accompanying that hoe-bag, bitch-faced, snake-cunt make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

"Santana! You have friends!" Brittany's eyes light up, her grin widening. My stomach drops, the phone in my pocket buzzing madly.

[Quinn: Open the fucking door before I freeze your tits off with some Mr. Freeze quality laser gun, you cunt.]

"Whatever you do, Britt, do _not_ open that door." But Brittany is smiling with that mischievous glimmer and before I can move she's already rocketing down the hallway. With my heart in my throat, I fling myself after her. See, here's the deal, Brittany's never met Quinn and for good reason, that bitch thinks of a gun to the face as a greeting.

I've seen Sister Satan eat live chickens for breakfast. She always goes for the throat first. Fuck cute and cuddly. Quinn hates Christmas and puppies and she probably has the digestive tract of a snake. I've seen her swallow men whole before, that bitch means serious business.

Remember Sugar Motta? Well Quinn Fabray is the thing of nightmares. Motta is a _joke_ compared to this bitch. See, no one (and when I say no one, I literally mean _no one_) fucks with the Q. I mean, no one but me. But that doesn't mean I want her anywhere near Brittany. Brittany—the girl who thinks Christmas is still magic, who believes that there are fairies secretly living in the dishwasher to clean all of the dishes, who thinks that if you plant little orange seeds outside in the middle of winter, a little orange plant will sprout and produce little, tiny, baby oranges.

I'm not ashamed of her, and how dare you for even thinking that. Brittany is the best fucking thing in this fetus infested city. Probably in this whole goddamn universe. No, it's more like I'm ashamed of Q. And more importantly that skunk-headed dog drooling at her heels all the goddamn time. It's like Puck can't keep his dick in his pants long enough for us to get a word in edge wise. He's always got a semi whenever he's around, says it makes it look longer. I think it's because he's hoping for Quinn to give it a little tug every once and a while in passing. She's slapped it a few times in annoyance. I think it probably counts.

"I'm so unkempt, Santana! How could you have invited guests over!" Rachel indignantly yells from her spot on the kitchen floor. I don't see her because I'm reaching out towards a slender wrist and golden hair.

"Yes to my OWN FUCKING HOUSE, GET THE FUCK OUT BERRY." I scream back at her.

Brittany dances her way down the hallway expertly, like waves on a rolling tide and I'm crashing into the crags. This literally cannot be happening. The tips of my fingers graze against her silken hair and I can hear her breath in my ear as if she's standing next to me. A shiver racks my body and I forget how to breathe for a split second. If I wasn't staring at her back, I would have swore she was there, her hands wrapping around my stomach, fingers warm and splayed against my stomach.

But she's not.

Brittany's definitely not.

Because her hand is upon the doorknob and twisting. The door begins to creek open, and I see hellfire hazel. There is redness splashed across Quinn's face, Puck rubbing his arm behind her, a scowl set in along his stupid lips. What an idiot. I can't help but roll my eyes.

"Santana fucking Lopez, you get your ass out here this very fucking second before I find everyone you know and love an—oh. You must be _Brittany_," Quinn says. It's startling how quickly her demonic stream of hatred and death threats can turn sugar sweet at the drop of a hat.

"Hi!" Brittany opens the door a little wider, completely unfazed by the transformation.

"I'm sorry for the incompetence of that _thing_ behind you. I'll gladly take it off your hands for you, maybe return with a better model?" Quinn points in my direction. As violently as I can muster, I flip her off.

Glancing over her shoulder, blue eyes wander over me and I feel exposed. "You mean the coat rack?" A puzzled crease develops between her perfect eyebrows.

Biting laughter shakes Quinn's chest before she realizes that Brittany is serious. "Oh." She sneers, the corners of her mouth pulling up into a coy smirk. "Oh, aren't you precious."

"What the fuck do you want, you bloodsucking, herpes-munching harpy?" Defensively, I shoulder my way in front of Brittany. Fingers spread along the small of my back, calmness rolling off her tips in waves. And it's like she's inside of me and outside of me all at once, my muscles twitching madly. I work to keep my cranky demeanor, just so Quinn knows I mean business.

If she's going to diss my girl in front of me, she better be ready for the shit storm that follows, because ain't nobody can put the beautiful, sweet bundle of goodness that is Brittany S. Pierce down in front of me and live.

"San-_tana_, _language_!" Rachel is screaming from the threshold of the kitchen.

"Berry if you don't get the fuck out before I turn around I will—"

"_Berry_?" Quinn snakes her head so she can see over my shoulder so she can better see. I try to block her but to no avail. "Rachel _Berry_? S, why didn't you_tell_ me you had such _prominent_ friends." Quinn shoulders her way by me, that fake polite smile upon her face, but I don't miss the way she cuts me a worried look. If I could, I would scratch her eyes out and tell her to get the fuck out, but that would probably be rude and then I would never hear the end of it from Rachel.

"Do you work with Santana?" Quinn freezes, shooting me another dangerous glance. _I can't believe you fucking told her._ I can read it there. Brittany's fingers twitch along my flesh and I remember the scarf in the pocket of my jacket. Fuck, today really isn't going as I planned.

Letting out a long sigh, I try my best to work up a lie to her. But I can't do it. Instead, my vocal chords are dead in my throat, the silence deafening. I feel like my heartbeat should be picking up, but there's nothing but the slow rhythmic _thump, thump, thump_ to the touch of Brittany.

"Work with Santana?" Quinn repeats the question carefully. I can see the lies beginning to build behind her eyes.

"Yeah, Santana makes the mess, Q cleans the whole fuckin' thing up—you should really see it in action, it's quite am—" Puck is running his mouth before we have a chance to intervene, his stupidity falling to new lows. Like who the fuck actually says that? With a low snarl, Quinn jabs her elbow into his ribs, giving it a twist for good measure. Yelping he shrinks back, sending her a glare.

"Oh, are you a janitor?" Because she's perfect, Brittany either chooses to ignore the icy glares Quinn is throwing at Puck or she doesn't understand them. I know it's the former, but most would probably think it's the latter.

"Er, no, sugar," I immediately hate the endearment and want to punch Quinn in the perfect, little nose.

"This is all well and good and it's a pleasure—I'm sure—but who are you?" In classic Rachel fashion, she pokes her head over my shoulder and points to Quinn and Puck in turn. "Don't tell me you're here to collect!" she gasps. Rolling my eyes, I can't even shut down her stupidity before she's rambling. "Brittany, I _told _you Santana is a hooligan! And look at the mess, now! She's brought armed thugs down upon your head and has endangered your safety. Never trust a woman in a leather jacket, Brittany S. Pierce—it always leads to drugs and-and-and thugs and guns and blood money. San-_tana_!" Rachel looks blue in the face, like she might pass out from lack of goddamn oxygen or like she might puke. Either would be hilarious.

"Will you calm your goddamn tits, Berry?" I snort. "While Q is noxious and a scum-fucking amoeba, she isn't a thug."

"Thank you," Quinn interjects quietly. "I really do hate being classed in the same category as _them_." Rachel lets out a long breath, visibly relaxing.

"They have much bigger guys for that," I add just to see her face pale.

"O-oh no," Rachel squeaks, her hand flying to her forehead. "I'm feeling faint."

"Maybe you should suck on the end of a banana?" Brittany's breath tickles against the back of my ear. The heat emanating from her palm spreads to my toes, vanilla washing over my senses. And I feel fuzzy, but I don't miss the way Quinn is staring at me. Or the way the bitter, acrid smell of burning-something tickles my nose.

And then dramatically "THE BREAD!" Rachel is running back down the hall. And I can't help but roll my eyes super hard every time that self center narcissist does something because it's always with that crazy passion and insane look in her eyes. It doesn't even matter if she's peeling a fucking potato or volunteering at some new animal shelter.

"Isn't that the smell of spice?" Brittany asks over her shoulder, breaking the contact between us. And just like that, I'm all too aware of the way Quinn is reaching towards my wrist and pulling. I make to take a step back but I'm already in her grip. Leaning in close, her lips graze my ear, her voice full of poison.

"_What the fuck do you think you're doing, you fucking idiot?_"

And just like that, Quinn is pulling me out the door, motioning to Puck to grab my jacket. Like the little bitch he is, he nods his head, ripping it from its resting place. The edges of the box peek out, the red wrapping paper like a beacon against the black of my leather. I try not to fixate upon it because I don't want Quinn to know. I don't want her to see and for her to start asking questions.

She's nosy enough.

"I'm taking Santana out for a couple of hours, sugar, please don't worry, I'll return her mostly intact to you after I've finished!" There's the faux sweetness in Quinn's voice, as if she's the sweetest person in this entire world.

"Bitch, you can't just—"

"_You've forced drastic measures, Santana fucking-goddamn-idiot Lopez, so you shut your goddamn muff hole._" She doesn't even wait for Brittany's response before she's dragging me out into the freezing streets, flour still smudged along the ridge of my nose and powdered all over the front of my shirt. The cold hits me like a harsh slap, goosebumps pricking along my arms.

Roughly grabbing me by the scruff of my neck, Quinn steers me down the street a block or two before I manage to rip myself away from her grasp.

"What the _fuck_, Q?" I yell. "At least give me my fucking jacket!"

"Oh, really? The way I see it, S, you need to chill the fuck out and take a couple of cold showers before you blow everything up—do you know who the fuck you're dealing with, you stupid cunt-sucker?" She's shaking her head and digging through her pockets and I know she's looking for a cigarette. Rolling my eyes, I pull a stick out of my back pocket and hand it to her. It's a bad habit, but who the fuck cares. I figure a super will get me before the cancer ever does anyway. Or the pungent air quality—seriously someone should get on that shit.

She snatches the stick out of my fingers and fumbles with her lighter.

"I know it was probably a pretty fucking shitty thing for me to do, Q, but I've been meaning to tell you." Puck shoves my jacket in my arms and I glare. His jaw is set firmly, his eyes dark. "Oh don't act like such a bitch, Puck, you ain't got anything to even piss at."

Quinn takes a long drag, the blue smoke drifting from between her lips to swirl and mix with the clouds above and I wonder _just how does it know to go up_? Because her words are still pressing into the inside of my ears, scarring me with everything that is Brittany. Touching the places the taint never could.

"I never thought I'd have to hold your goddamn hand like this."

"You've held hands?" Puck perks, the lecher behind his eyes crawling through his sludgy iris like the creature from the black lagoon.

"Shut the fuck up," Quinn and I say at the same time.

"Oh, so you _have _fucked! I knew you were jelly, Q," he sings, a wolfish grin beginning to form. "If you're ever intere—" I bury my fist into his stomach. He stumbles back a little from the unexpected blow, but doesn't flinch otherwise. And it feels wonderful to have the heat of Puck's stomach grounding me. My knuckles burn, but not in that OH-MY-GOD-WHY way.

Because there's nothing else to say, Quinn begins to walk again. The people, the crowd, everything, moves around us and my apprehension begins to build. I knew she would be upset, but I didn't think it would be this big of a deal. It's a big deal, yeah, but it's not world breaking. I mean, well I guess it _is _sort of world breaking. But I mean, so the fuck what? I can do what I want, I'm an adult right?

I open my mouth to tell her this, but we're standing on third and Olive and the faint stench of gunpowder mixing with gasoline catches off of the pavement. And I realize what day it is. And I realize why the fuck I'm such a fuck up.

"You better not fuck up, S. You're the best around and if our employers have to start dealing with Motta and her fucked-up, pole-licking, lollipop guild, they aren't going to be pleased." She takes another long drag, the shadows of the city crossing like train tracks along her face. And I know Quinn is going to _some_place. And I'd better hop the fuck aboard before the train leaves.

Because once you get off that train, you're dead. It doesn't matter who the fuck you are. Pulling on my jacket, I zip it up to my neck and push my hands deep into my pockets. The corners of the box dig into me deeper.

"It ain't gonna make me fuck up, Q."

"You're sure." She sounds skeptical.

"I ain't ever been caught."

"You know who you're dealing with, right?" The sound of screeching tires rockets through the corridors of Providence, two black vans skidding to a halt in front of Providence Bank of the People, seven men with theatrical masks pulled over their faces leaping from the rolling doors.

"It's just Rachel fucking Berry." I reply.

Three Ak-47's, four M-16's and seventeen pounds of C-4.

Adrenaline spikes through my body as Quinn thrusts a little bluetooth headset into my hands. Grasping it, I shove it into my ear and open the door directly behind us. Following me into the lobby of a fairly rundown apartment complex, we begin to climb stairs. It smells like mildew and old paint, little flecks of dust dancing in the bright beams of weakened sunlight.

We're up to the sixth floor when the first shots are fired.

"Status Ace High," I say.

"…the safety boxes!" I hear in the background before a scratchy, yet all too familiar voice echoes through the headset. "Full deck."

"Roger." I begin taking the steps two at a time. Getting to the seventh floor, I open the stairwell door and take an immediate left, producing my keychain. 73A. The numbers are swinging by lose screws and the pain on the door is peeling back to reveal the ugliness of the door underneath. Claw marks mar the outside, deep and black and burnt, but I don't have time to examine them before I'm pushing the door open and running to the singular table set up in front of the apartment's living room windows.

Five computer monitors sit in a half circle around two chairs. I take the left, Quinn takes the right, grinding the butt of her cigarette into the top of the table. She begins to type furiously, the redness in her cheeks still marring her otherwise pale complexion.

"Rachel fucking Berry," she snorts.

Puck shuts the door behind us, but doesn't lock it. He produces a simple black pistol and stands in the threshold of the kitchen, staring at the front door.

"Most dramatic bitch you ever saw," I say. Shots fire in my ear. Peeking up over the tops of the monitors, I watch as people, like a thousand marbles, scatter from the streets. And they're all so little compared to the size of this universe. Compared to me. Compared to everything. They have no idea. "Why the fuck couldn't I just get a Bang! gun? Instead I got Rachel fucking Berry."

"I don't know, she was sort of cute." Quinn points to something on one of her monitors. "Cops."

"We raise, Ace—I repeat, we raise," I say into the headset. My fingers fly over the keyboard before me, the schematics, heart rates and security feeds of the inside of the building all at my finger tips. "Cute—Rachel fucking Berry—cute? Quinn, don't make me slap your ugly face."

"You wouldn't dare." And she's right. I wouldn't.

"Yeah, I might get your diseases or some shit. Wouldn't want to make you bleed on me." I eye her out of the corner of my eye.

"Seriously, S. If you let this get in the way of—"

"It _won't_."

"Do you know who you're fucking dealing with? This isn't the minor leagues anymore, this is the grade-A Stupidity Squad." Frustration builds in my chest.

"She doesn't even know about me!"

"Do you know about _her_?" Quinn looks me dead in the eye for a split second because that's all she needs. Letting out an annoyed sigh, she turns back to her screens.

"Dealer, there's a loaded pot." The update startles me out of our argument. Flicking my eyes over the screen, three of the guys have the remaining people that didn't scatter at gun point in one of the vaults.

"Move in Ace, jackpot is in 13J7-1123."

"Ro—" He begins to say before Quinn snaps her fingers at me, her eyes glassed and dead like a tinted window.

"All in." She points to her screen before glaring at me. Fuck. Selfishly, I was sort of hoping that they might stay home.

"All in, Ace. We're all in."

"_Fuck_," he breathes before twirling the barrel of his gun in the air, signaling to the rest of the group to hurry the fuck up. What did we pay them for?

My heart pounds in my throat.

"Let's see what your honey can do." Crossing her arms, Quinn leans back into her chair and shakes her head.


End file.
